


you're familiar (like my mirror years ago)

by orphan_account



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Fluff, Internalized Things, M/M, They Kiss A Lot And Somewhere In There Owen Is Having A Feelings Crisis. It's Fine, i broke and did a five plus one bc...the Tropes, no period typical homophobia bc this is MY world I make the rules, this one goes out to the saf discord
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 09:32:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19170529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Like you mean it,” Owen mumbles, eyes flickering to the side.He is entirely unprepared for how Curt kisses when he means it.(owen, learning to ask for the things that he wants.)





	you're familiar (like my mirror years ago)

1.

 

Owen needs to start thinking things through before he says them.

The situation is as follows: him and Curt are at a bar in the south of Bristol, celebrating a job well done. Owen is down three shots, something he’ll use as an excuse, later. He isn’t sure how much Curt has had, but his eyes are shining, and his arm is warm where it brushes against Owen’s. The air is soft, and humid, sort of glowing, the edges of the lamplight creeping into Owen’s vision.

“--so that’s when I pulled the fifth knife out of my shoe,” Curt is saying. His voice is melodic, words just barely sliding over one another. “And he looked at me like I was some sort of crazy person! Seriously, what a waste of inventory. What else am I supposed to keep in my shoes? Socks?”

And then, across the room. Entering the bar is a flash of light hair and familiarity, the likes of which he hasn’t seen in years. Owen stiffens, panic jolting through him, and Curt tilts his head, concern in the crease of his brow. 

“Kiss me,” Owen blurts.

Curt’s eyes widen, slightly, but he must see something in Owen’s face because that’s all the hesitating he does. He leans forward, pressing a chaste kiss to Owen’s lips.

“Like you mean it,” Owen mumbles, eyes flickering to the side.

He is entirely unprepared for how Curt kisses when he means it. 

There’s a strong hand cupping his cheek, a warm mouth sliding against his. Curt tastes like pineapple and whiskey and something sweet. It’s not explicit, not by any stretch of the imagination, but there’s something certain and final to the graze of Curt’s teeth against his bottom lip that sticks low in Owen’s chest. Warmth rushes through his entire body. Like Curt is breathing it into him. 

Jesus. If this is all it takes, Owen  _ really _ needs to get laid. 

Curt pulls back, pressing a final kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Everything all right?” He asks, voice low.

Owen swallows. He tries, desperately, to remember how to breathe. “Saw an old friend,” he manages. “Things ended poorly, and he’s in possession of some personal knowledge I’d rather not get out, and I’d really prefer he doesn’t see me, so—”

“It’s okay,” Curt says. “You don’t need to—it’s okay, Owen.” He smiles, lips curving softly into that odd, adorable cat shape. For some reason, it makes Owen’s heart thud.

“Thank you, love,” Owen says. The endearment almost feels charged, but neither of them mention it. Curt tells another terrible joke, and Owen pretends not to find it funny—and just like that, the atmosphere has returned to the comfortable, joking one Owen is used to.

Still, later that night, he presses a finger to his lips—

No, best not to think about it. Probably wouldn’t ever happen again. Him and Curt are good friends—more importantly, they’re partners. Owen isn’t about to ruin what they have with something stupid.

 

2.

 

“Left here,” Curt hisses, pointing, and Owen ducks under his arm to cut across the street. Behind them, gunshots ring out, one after another. 

They feel louder, closer. Owen can’t tell. His lungs ache. “Hate to break it to you, old chap, but I don’t think I’ll last much longer.”

“Phrasing,” Curt responds, grin a mile wide. 

“Oh, shut up.” Loathe as he is to admit it, though, it gives him an idea. There’s an adjacent alleyway, tucked behind a dumpster, and Owen darts behind it, pulling Curt after him. He presses his back to the brick wall, grabbing a handful of Curt’s jacket collar to tug him closer.

“Kiss me,” Owen demands. 

Curt nods, a wry grin twisting the corners of his mouth. And then his hands are sliding into Owen’s hair, tugging him barely off of the wall before slamming their mouths together, pressing his head back into cold brick.

Owen’s heart stutters. Probably a result of sprinting two miles under heavy gunfire. Or maybe just residual nerves. It’s fine.

It’s fine, because he maintains enough brain functionality under the roaring in his ears to kiss back, and to keep his eyes peeled. It’s fine, even though Curt is a warm weight against his chest, even though sparks shoot up his spine when Curt’s fingers graze against his scalp. 

Curt kisses down his jaw, breathes into his ear, “All clear?” He latches his mouth onto Owen’s neck, then, head still low enough to give full view of the gunman running right past them. It takes every ounce of willpower in Owen’s body not to gasp, to lean into the touch. 

“All clear,” Owen confirms, endlessly proud at the steadiness of his voice. Curt pulls off, and Owen tamps down the embarrassing urge to whine at the loss of contact. “Didn’t know you were the possessive type, love.”

Curt scoffs. “It worked, didn’t it?” He pokes at the spot on Owen’s neck, teasing, and it just barely twinges. Still, it’ll probably leave a mark. Something about that makes Owen’s stomach twist.

“Well, we are the world’s greatest spies,” Owen reasons. “Figures we can lose a tail.”

“With style,” Curt adds. 

“Oh, is that what they’re calling it these days?”

Curt gives him a sideways glare, but he doesn’t say anything about it being Owen’s idea in the first place, which Owen is inordinately grateful for. “I know the folks on your side of the pond aren’t much on having fun,” he starts, grin pulling at the corners of his mouth, “but surely you can grant me  _ something _ .”

There was something  _ exhilarating  _ about it. Owen can admit as much to himself. But anyone into to men and possessing a working pair of eyes would be attracted to Curt, so it’s not like there’s anything to feel off about. It was just… nice, while it lasted. Really nice.

 

3.

 

“Hey—hey, look.” Owen hiccups, gesturing vaguely to the ceiling. “Curt, look.”

There’s a sprig of green leaves hanging above them. Curt squints at it, adorably, like he’s not sure what to make of it. “It’s… berries,” he supplies.

“No no no no,” Owen says. They’ve both had a bit to drink, and everything is fuzzy and red-shifted around the edges. “No, Curt, it’s the. What’s it's fuckin’ name. Kissing plant.”

“Oh!” Curt’s mouth forms a little ‘o’ shape, and his eyes widen. “You’re  _ right _ .”

“Y’know what it means,” Owen says. “It—you—you.”

Curt snickers. “Take your time,” he says, the slow slur of his words broken by giggles.

“You gotta kiss me,” Owen says, instead.

It takes Curt a moment, because he’s become distracted by Owen’s five o’clock shadow, stroking it with the pad of his thumb. But then he slots their mouths together, and it’s wet and warm and the hand on the back of his neck burns like an iron. Owen whimpers, and can’t really find it within him to be embarrassed. He slides his fingers under the hem of Curt’s shirt, over the soft skin there, feels Curt shudder beneath him. 

They break apart when the wolf whistles start, and Curt looks up at him with bright, bright eyes. “ _ Mistletoe _ ,” he says, and then promptly falls asleep, slumping against Owen’s shoulder.

The rest of the night passes in a sort of blur. When Owen wakes up, he’s alone on Curt’s couch, tucked up in a fluffy blue blanket, nursing one of the worst headaches of his life. He can still feel the ghost of Curt’s mouth on his, though, lingering like a brand.

 

4.

 

The universe must either be fucking with him or trying to tell him something, because for the duration of the next mission he goes on with Curt, they’re posing as a married couple. 

“Easier to get one of you into the party, with the other as a plus one,” Cynthia had explained it. And Owen wasn’t about to argue with her, least of all because he liked his fingers unbroken and head un-smashed, thank you. 

Still, the shiny ring on his finger and  _ repeated  _ mentions of his husband have done nothing to dissuade the woman that’s been hovering next to him for the better part of the hour.

“Do you like the opera, Mr. Dawes?” She asks, stroking the side of her martini glass with a well-manicured finger.

“Not particularly, no.” That’s not a lie. The opera is dull. Still, Owen might have condemned the Queen herself if it would cut this conversation short. It’s bad enough that he hasn’t been able to search the place properly. “My husband is a fan, though.”

At this point, he has to wonder if she thinks he’s made his husband up. But then, he spots the top of Curt’s head amongst the throng of people, moving towards him. The “Oh thank God,” slips off of his tongue before he gains the sense of mind enough to reel it in.

“That’s him, then?” The woman asks. She sounds unimpressed, which makes Owen bristle, because  _ honestly. _ Curt’s wearing a new suit and his hair is freshly cut, and he’s a little flushed around his cheeks and the tops of his ears. Either of them should be so lucky.

She says something else, but Owen isn’t listening, not really. He starts walking, to meet Curt halfway. “Kiss me,” he says, by way of greeting, because while convincing this woman that they truly are married isn’t necessarily crucial to the mission, it would make Owen feel a lot better.

And Curt does. It’s quick, comfortable, like they really have been married for years, like this is how they always greet each other. For some reason the domesticity of it all hits Owen like a sucker punch to the gut, and he has to lay a hand on Curt’s shoulder to steady himself.

“I have an admirer,” Owen admits. 

Something in Curt’s gaze shifts, then, and he brings Owen in for another kiss. It’s not too different from the first, but something  _ feels _ different, in the firm press of Curt’s mouth, the hand that winds around his waist in a move that Owen would call kind of possessive _ , _ if he didn’t know any better. Which he does. This is a cover, a role. It means nothing more than that.

“I found the blueprints,” Curt mumbles into his ear. 

“ _ Lovely _ .” Owen grins, pleased and proud and still sort of buzzing from the hand at his waist. “So, we can leave?”

“We don’t have to,” Curt says. “I mean. We could stay for a moment, right?”

Owen doesn’t have the faintest idea why Curt would want to do that, but he supposes he can humor him. “We could,” he says.

“You can go back to talking to that girl,” Curt offers, stepping back, just slightly. “Are you two going to… meet up? Later?”

It occurs to Owen that the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. Honestly, all he’d been thinking about doing after they completed their mission was going back to the hotel with Curt, having a drink or two, maybe playing a card game. That means something, probably, and the knowledge of it is just at the tip of Owen’s tongue...

“Well, I’d be a rather terrible husband if I did that,” Owen says, after what feels like millenia. 

There’s a moment of slight panic, where he wonders if there was someone  _ Curt  _ wanted to meet up with, that Owen was getting in the way of—but then Curt grins, a stupidly bright sort of thing, and it washes away any nerves that Owen might have been feeling.

The music changes. It’s soft and swaying. Curt holds his hand out. “Care to dance, then?”

“Of course, love,” Owen says.

Curt pulls him out to the dance floor.

 

5.

 

Owen always feels bad, having to wake Curt up for missions. It’s a rare occurrence in and of itself, because Curt is nothing if not a seemingly infinite well of energy, even in the mornings. Still, there are times he tires himself out, and Owen wakes up first, stumbles out of his bed and across the room to Curt’s. Watches the rise and fall of his chest for maybe a moment longer than is necessary before shaking him awake.

He looks so peaceful, in his sleep. Owen would envy him, but they both have their fair share of nightmares.

“Curt,” he whispers, laying a hand on the other man’s shoulder.

Curt jolts awake with a quick, quiet intake of breath. He relaxes when he sees Owen. “Morning,” he says, half-mumble.

“Forty minutes,” Owen tells him. “I’ve put a pot of coffee on, it should be ready in a few.”

“God, I love you,” Curt groans. 

It takes a couple minutes of puttering around and dressing and teeth-brushing for Curt’s words to sink in. Owen stops dead, halfway through taking his bread out of the toaster. He looks across the room at Curt, fiddling with the buttons of his shirt, and suddenly his breath feels miles away.

The thing is, Owen has a bad feeling about this one. The thing is, there’s a realization creeping at the corners of his periphery. Like if he fits the last puzzle piece in, the universe will explain itself to him, settling like a relocated shoulder, and everything hurtling around inside his chest will make sense.

“Curt,” he says, haltingly. 

Curt turns back. He’s halfway through knotting his tie, and his ungelled hair falls around his face in soft curls. Maybe it wouldn’t work on anyone else, but domesticity just looks  _ good  _ on Curt. “Yeah?”

_ Oh, _ Owen thinks.  _ Oh, god.  _

“Are you okay?” Curt asks, stepping forwards. His head tilts, slightly to the side, like the new angle will let him see right into Owen’s soul. 

And who the fuck knows, maybe it does, because Owen’s heart does a little skip-jump at the action. “Kiss me,” he says, and it’s almost a question.

Curt obliges. It’s softer than any of their previous kisses, but the edge of certainty remains. Curt’s fingers ghost along Owen’s jaw and he shivers, screwing his eyes shut, pressing closer, closer.

When they pull apart, Curt’s mouth is just the right side of swollen, glistening. He looks at Owen with his stupid, fond eyes, like he somehow comprehends the extent of what this is doing to Owen. What  _ he _ is doing to Owen.

Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck. _

“For—for good luck,” Owen explains. Even though Curt hasn’t asked. His face is burning. “Um. Well. I’ve got to meet the Czech agent at the airport, so. I guess I’ll see you on the other side, old chap.”

And then he turns, and exits, and tries to pretend he isn’t running away. 

 

1.

 

So, Owen muses. The facts are as follows: he is completely, totally, and irreconcilably in love with Curt Mega. He wants to wake up next to him every morning and make him pancakes and save the world together and watch bad movies on his couch and kiss him, just a ridiculous amount, all the time. 

He is also standing on the stoop of Curt’s apartment, and has been for the past ten minutes, like an idiot. Only trembling a little, he raises a finger to the doorbell, again, and then lowers it, again. 

_ Coward _ , his mind supplies.

“Shit,” Owen hisses, pounding on the doorbell before he can change his mind.

Curt answers the door in sweatpants and a university sweatshirt, and Owen tries to pretend the sight of it doesn’t make his stupid heart dance the jitterbug. When he sees Owen, surprise and then an odd mixture of pleased concern flash over his face in quick bursts. “Owen? Is everything alright?”

_ Might as well just fucking go for it, then. _

“Kiss me,” he says, and if his voice cracks a little, neither of them mention it. 

Curt bites his lower lip, shifts to lean on the door frame. When he speaks, his voice is impossibly gentle. “Can I ask why?”

Owen takes a short breath in, but he isn’t nervous, not really. The old certainty of  _ love _ washes over him, like the rolling waves of low tide. “Because I want you to,” he says. 

It’s like the sun bursts from behind the horizon, how brightly Curt smiles at him, then. “Good,” he says, and there’s so much emotion in that one little word, Owen feels like he’s going to explode with it.

And then Curt’s kissing him,  _ for real this time _ , and somehow it’s better than all the other times combined, just for the sheer giddiness he presses into Owen’s mouth, the knowledge that the both of them  _ mean  _ this. He pulls Owen inside, gentle, fingers dancing over his arms, his shoulders, like he can’t figure out where to put them. Owen shuts the door, and when Curt pins him to it, it’s with a soft grip on his waist, thumb tracing slow against the skin there, when they pull back to breathe.

“I love you,” Owen says, just in case Curt hasn’t quite figured it out.

Of course he has, though, because he  _ knows  _ Owen, probably better than Owen knows himself. “I love you, too,” he says, nudging their noses together. “Glad you finally worked that one out.”

Owen almost tells him to shut up, before realizing that there is a much easier way to get Curt to stop talking.

 

Later, Curt has Owen pinned down to soft sheets, pressing his wrists into the mattress, above his head. “What do you want?” he asks, lips curved up in a smug smile. 

“Kiss me,” Owen breathes, face alight with a grin of his own. 

And so Curt does. 

**Author's Note:**

> hiiiii this one's dedicated to the saf discord! love yall..... the bone economy is THRIVING  
> check me out on tumblr @foxglovefemme  
> title from "from eden" bc i listened to it on repeat while writing this


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